


His first Encounter

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Awesome Greg Lestrade, Drug Addict Sherlock, Drug Use, M/M, Young Sherlock, i have no idea what im doing, seriously what am I doing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2021-02-18 16:21:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21580492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Whenever Lestrade is asked how he and Sherlock met, the answer is always "the sauna case". But is that really true? Or is there more to the story?This is what really happened, weeks before the case was even heared of.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 12
Kudos: 61





	His first Encounter

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I'm sorry, this is my first work... is anyone actually going to read this??

Cold fingers tightly gripped Sherlock's shoulder in the darkness, making him internally shudder, and the shock made him flinch. His mind was clouded with drugs, and was barely able to register this development, only able to snap into focus at this stranger's action. The hidden figure twisted Sherlock's body, and it was all he could do to keep his knees from giving in. Sherlock had experienced many nightmares similar to this, where he violently lost his virginity, but somehow, in real life, it seemed much more chilling. And he knew, seeing as he'd overdosed in a dark street, that there was no one around to help, not that anyone would actually want to help Sherlock Holmes, of all people. He felt hands travel all over his face, touching and covering his body so there was no escape. Muffled screams were barely able to escape his burning throat. And he felt sick. Extremely sick. His stomach was twisting itself into knots, and his throat was suffocating him. 

The initial fear he felt had evolved into a full blown panic attack, aided strongly by the excess amounts of cocaine flowing inside his veins. The world was spinning, spinning badly, but he wasn't able to drift off. His torso suddenly felt ice cold and exposed, his shirt must've been ripped off. With every step of the assault, Sherlock could feel his stomach twist and turn more violently, he really might just be sick, and his lungs, while gasping for air, felt like they'd explode. Fingers were travelling to his jeans, sending shivers down his spine, near his groin. He braced himself for what he knew was about to be extremely painful, thanks to his excessively realistic nightmares. However, the final blow was delayed. Opening his eyes, he looked toward the sound of someone punching his predator. Policeman obviously, because who else would be exploring the darker street ways looking for junkies and alcoholics? Great, just what he needed, to be busted by an officer for his drug habit. Mycroft was really going to love this.

  
The rest was unclear to Sherlock. He heard something that vaguely resembled "What the bloody _hell_ are you doing here? You're only, what, sixteen?", but everything was spinning too hard for him to be able to form a proper answer. Next thing he knew, he was lying in a bed, with bright light shining in through a window. The light was contributing greatly to his massive headache, which was throbbing so bad that he couldn't move his eyes without feeling pain. Underneath his skin might've been invaded by insects; he felt crawling and scratching. His chest was tight, like it might implode on itself, and his hands and knees were uncontrollably shaking. He must've been unconscious for a long time to feel withdrawal this early.

"Sherlock... Holmes? That's what your brother said anyway," said a voice at the door. The man leaning on the door was far from what Sherlock had expected. He was... beautiful. " _Beautiful!?_ _What was that supposed to mean?_ " Sherlock asked himself. Each word said by the man felt like a hammer in Sherlock's head. He tried to form a reply, but the words were unable to string themselves into a sentence, due to the heavy confusion and light spinning. So he gave a confirming "hmm,". It definitely came out more agitated than he intended  
"Bloody hell, you can't be more than what, fifteen, sixteen?" Though the voice sound shocked and curious, Sherlock could almost hear a tone of sympathy. Sympathy? When was the last time someone ever felt bad for him? It almost felt... nice. Like someone out there actually cares about you. "But hey, snap out of it, this man hasn't had a chance to get to know you yet. Then, you're back on the streets," Sherlock reminded himself. He tried to get up, but his legs and hands were shaking badly. The insects were invading under his skin worse than before, making him want to peel it all off. He needed them. Now. God, he needed a fix badly. So _goddamn_ badly. He could feel the tightness building up inside him, threatening to explode. He had to scream. And he did. The man at the door was shocked, and took a few steps back. Well what the hell did he expect of a junkie missing his next fix?!

"I'm Lestrade. Greg Lestrade. The officer who saved you last night? Yeah, that was me," the man said with an almost agitated voice. "And how old even _are_ you anyway? Aren't you still in school? And who was that, who called me earlier? Sounded like the bloody prime minister!"

As soon as Sherlock's mind processed everything the man had said, which took quite a long time, he answered bitterly and slurred, "That was my brother, Mycroft. A real pain, he is, he probably spotted me from a security camera, god, couldn't you have kept away from them? He's been looking for me, quite unsuccessfully, for the past month now. And yes, I'm sixteen, and, I've been kicked out of school. But school is useless, I'm way smarter than anyone there." That last remark had Lestrade try to stifle a laugh. Sherlock glared at him, while scratching his skin to ease the uncomfort. 

But his eyes, instead of reaching the Lestrade's, caught on to the man's wrist. Scars. Some fresh, and red, and some faded and dark. A few bad ones that could easily pass as lacerations, burning white on the his tan skin. His entire wrist was a shade lighter than the rest of his arm, he must have bandaged them not long ago, meaning that this was a repetitive habit. The faded colour of the shirt showed that the man sweated, suggesting that he was constantly wearing his blazer, so obviously no one knew about this, and it had been going on for quite some time. Sherlock's eyes softened from his original death stare. Lestrade must've caught on to what Sherlock had noticed, because he hastily stuffed his left hand into his pocket, and picked up his blazer with his right. "Right, I, um, better get off to work them. Um, help yourself to anything in the kitchen, if you get hungry that is." He said all this relatively joyfully, but there was definitely a tone of sadness, or worry in his voice. 

And Sherlock needed to know why.

  


  


**Author's Note:**

> If someone happened to have read this entire thing... thank you, and you shall now be free of this cringing.


End file.
